Rock, Roll, and Raising Hell
by ME-Iron-Maiden
Summary: A new vigilante arrives and tries to rise from obscurity and carve his own path in the Marvel Universe. Rated M to be safe.
1. Chapter 1

DISCLAIMER: MARVEL OWNS THE RIGHTS TO THE UNIVERSE. ONLY A SELECT FEW CHARACTERS THAT I CREATED MYSELF ARE MINE

_A/N: Well my muse is fickle as hell. Hit another roadblock on Halo of Flies and Who Dares, Wins just spinning its wheels. So I decided to revive one of my oldest writing projects: create a hero who is skilled, but is overshadowed by the likes of Spider-Man, the X-Men, etc. Also: I'm not 100% versed on the Marvel universe and if I deviate a bit from canon, just remember this is a fanfic and isn't canon to begin with. I'll try to avoid allowing any of the more well-known Mavel charrys to go OOC, however. Anyways, enough of my rambling and on with the story._

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><p>"SPIDERMAN: THE MENACE CONTINUES!" the main headline of the Daily bugle shouts from the newsstand. <em>Whoever is in charge of that place needs to get a fucking life,<em> a young man decked out in a pair of relaxed fit jeans, leather biker jacket, well-worn leather boots, and simple thinks as he pauses to buy a copy of the paper.

"What do you think of Spider-Man?" the newsstand clerk, an older man with a thick Brooklyn accent asks as he takes the money.

"Honestly? I think he's doing good by the city, what with him taking down psychos like the Green Goblin and the like," the young man answers, his voice a deep, slightly gravelly tenor.

"Yeah, I hear ya. Take care now."

"Thanks, you too."

Opening the paper, the young man skims the headlines for something fairly specific. _They should have something about it by now,_ he thinks, finding what he's looking for after a couple minutes.

"Alley Beatings May Be Connected," the headline reads, heading a small article that covers barely a fourth of a page in the middle of the paper. "In the past several weeks, there has been a series of vicious assaults in various areas of the city. Assaults that cannot be linked to either Spider-Man, Daredevil, or The Punisher. The only common threads are a small silver pin left behind by the attacker. Eyewitness reports are sketchy and there are rumors that these incidents are linked to similar attacks in other large metropolitan areas. Is it possible that there is a new vigilante in New York? More as this story develops."

_Took them long enough, _he thinks as he tosses the newspaper into the garbage can, heads for his motorcycle: a Yamaha Midnight Warrior, puts an earbud from his iPod in his ear, tunes it to a local radio station that specializes in hard rock and heavy metal, and puts on a black full-faced helmet with a full tinted visor. Kick-starting the engine, he tools down the street, just killing time until he has to get back to the theatre where his band, Swords of the Fallen, is scheduled to open for a miniature metal festival. _Took us a lot of work to get this far. Hopefully we won't blow it._

"Your mama told you not to talk to strangers. Look in the mirror; tell me do you think your life's in danger? Yeah… No mo- We interrupt this broadcast to bring you breaking news: Police are in a shoot-out with multiple heavily armed and amored robbers at the National Bank in Brooklyn. As of now, there haven't been any deaths, but there are several wounded," the news broadcaster says, cutting off Ozzy's "No More Tears".

_Well, now. I'm not that far from there. Let's see if I can make the front page,_ he thinks, pulling into an alley for a moment to take the license plate off of his bike and stash it one of his inner jacket pockets before racing back out into the street and weaving a path to the bank.

As he gets close, he spots a crowd of rubberneckers blocking his path. _Of course. Gunfire is going off so everyone has to stop and see what's going on. _Frustrated, he honks his horn a few times and rides up onto the sidewalk, the on-lookers hurriedly clearing a path for him. Then he runs into another barricade, this time a literal one: the police set up a perimeter to prevent the robbers from escaping. _Shit,_ he thinks, looking around and spotting an empty car-hauling semi rig about two hundred feet from the line.

Turing the bike around, he goes back down the street a couple blocks and lines himself up. _I can't believe I'm going to try this…_ he thinks, gunning the bike and taking off in a cloud of burnt rubber, horn honking rapidly as he picks up speed. Before he realizes it, he's almost at the trailer. Giving the bike one last burst of the throttle, he braces himself as he hits the trailer and takes off, clearing the barricade by several feet and somehow manages to keep from crashing.

Running on adrenaline, he races the throttle and crashes right through the glass doors at the front of the bank. Once inside, he slides the bike across the open tile floor, using the back wheel to tail-whip three of the ski mask wearing robbers before smoothly using what's left of the bike's momentum to stand it back up and casually setting it on its kickstand. Getting off the bike like he owns the place, he snaps his right arm out and an asp baton shoots out of the forearm strap he has concealed under his jacket and into his hand, extending at the end of its trip.

Moving with a sense of purpose, he dispatches the still-conscious robbers he'd hit with his bike with strikes across the temple, jaw, and base of the skull; hard enough to render them unconscious, but not hard enough to kill. While he's doing this, the others recover from their initial shock and move to attack him with knives and bats, but he proves to be the faster, not even looking at his enemies as he takes them down one at a time with one strike a piece from his baton, dodging their attacks and countering them with ease. After less than a minute, there are only two enemies left standing; one armed with a pump-action shotgun the other with a Glock pistol.

The shotgun wielder, the closer of the two, tries his best to take care of the seemingly inhuman biker with a shotgun blast. However, the shot finds only air as said biker literally dodges the blast, and darts in to counter the threat: trapping the shotgun under his arm to tie up the robber's arms and using him as a human shield as his remaining partner fires his Glock in a blind panic, wildly spraying his shots until the gun clicks empty. Grabbing the first robber's collar, the biker almost casually headbutts him unconscious and slowly advances on his final adversary.

The robber desperately tries to fire his empty gun, completely gripped in panic. Deciding to use this last man as his example, the biker whips his baton around and smashes it into the robber's gun hand, the distinctive sound of bone breaking audible over the smack of metal on flesh. Crying out in pain, the robber clutches his mangled hand to his hand as he falls to his knees. Waiting for a moment to draw this out, the biker places the tip of his baton under the chin of the weeping man and uses it to put pressure on a pressure point there, forcing him to stand and tilting his head back to expose his throat. Slowly the biker rears back with his left hand formed into a fist with the second knuckle of his index finger exposed and his thumb braced on his middle finger to reinforce the exposed knuckle. Pausing for a brief second, he waits for the would-be robber to look directly into the blank blackness of his helmet before firing his one-knuckle punch right into the man's carotid artery, striking just hard enough to stun, but not enough for a complete knock out.

Taking a few moments, the biker walks around the bank lobby and then takes a quick look outside, searching for more enemies. Satisfied that no one else wants to play, he takes out a small pin in the shape of a stylized silver raven and pins it on his last enemy's collar before striding over to his bike like he's got all the time in the world. Kick starting the bike, he revs the engine a couple times and drives out of the bank, finding a hole in the police perimeter as he leaves the area as fast as the bike will carry him.


	2. Chapter 2

_A/N: Alright, second chapter. Please read and review._

DISCLAIMER: I ONLY OWN THOSE CHARACTERS THAT I CREATED MYSELF. ALL OTHERS BELONG TO MARVEL

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><p><em>Huh<em>, the biker thinks as he pulls into the theatre parking lot. _I'd have thought that the police would have chased me more than they did._ Parking his bike, he reinstalls the license plate and heads inside toward the dressing room.

It isn't long before he's greeted by a deep, aggravated voice that is usually belting out the lyrics of the band's songs. "A little late, aren't you?" a muscle-bound Nordic-looking man clad in black leather pants, boots, and vest with no shirt asks snarkily as the biker takes off his helmet and shakes out his longish sandy brown hair.

"What can I say? Traffic was shit," he answers, striding over to the trunk where his stage costume is stored.

"Ease up on him, Erik," a second large-framed man sporting the same black leather costume retorts as he warms up on his glossy black Fender bass, his straight, mahogany colored hair falling almost to his waist. "We've got plenty of time before we have to be on stage," he continues, his voice a rich, somewhat melodic baritone.

"Yeah," the drummer pipes up, also wearing the band's "uniform"; his hair a shimmering curtain of black and his voice is actually somewhat bland when compared to the rest of the band. "We don't even have to schlep our own gear for once."

While his bandmates are arguing, the biker opens the trunk, stashes his batons inside, and changes into his costume. Considering he doesn't have the physique of a Mr. Olympia competitor, his outfit is understandably different from the others. Instead of dressing like a leather-clad Warrior of Heavy Metal, he instead wears tan trousers that are raggedly torn to the knees, heavily worn, nearly tattered boots, no shirt, and a pair of costume shackles complete with broken chains. The costume, while definitely different than that of the others, complements him well: showing off his athletic, but lean physique and it also somewhat fits with the overall theme of the band.

Locking up his trunk, the biker takes his guitar, a black Dean Razorback V with silver bevels, out of its case and runs through a series of scales and arpeggios to warm up. When it's time, the band takes the stage, standing in the darkness as the noise of the gathered crowd permeates the air.

"Alright everyone!" the emcee, a man who looks and sounds a lot like Lemmy Kilgore says over the microphone. "Let's get this show on the road! Give it up for SWORDS OF THE FALLEN!"

Taking the cue, the drummer taps his hi-hat a few times to set the rhythm and they dive headlong into their first song: a self-titled track. The bassist starts a driving, galloping riff; similar to a slower, more aggressive version of Iron Maiden's "The Trooper". The drummer's rhythm is simple and powerful; meant to stir the blood. A couple bars later, the biker joins the rhythm, matching the overall feel while adding fills every few bars to add to the atmosphere. After a few more bars, Erik grabs the mic, and starts to sing in his powerful, nigh hypnotic voice.

The song weaves a tale of four men in an ancient army on the eve of battle, the dreams of glorious victory and the unvoiced fears of crushing defeat. It continues to the day of the battle itself, the song breaking down into the solo when the fictional army charges the gates of a castle. The biker's solo is fairly quick, but not insanely fast as he improvises on the fly: performing high-speed runs interspersed with trilling notes like a mix between Dave Murray and the late Randy Rhoads. The final verse has the men making it to the inner keep of the castle, victory in sight as each of the men receives a mortal wound. Somehow they manage to gather the last of their strength and finish their mission before falling.

"Now for wrath, now for ruin, and a red dawn; scores of dead before the castle walls. Crimson flash of steel brings our foes to heel, Swords of the Fallen pass into Odin's hall," Erik sings, the music fading into the roar of the crowd. Not letting up, the band transitions into covers of Manowar's "Sons of Odin" and "Warriors of the World", playing close renditions of each song, but not complete carbon copies of the originals.

"Well, you've been an amazing audience," Erik says as the band introductions start. "I'm Erik Samuelsson. To my right, on bass guitar: MIKE RICHTER!" At his name, Mike plays a bass solo, his style a cross between Cliff Burton and Steve Harris.

"YEAH! On drums, JOHN FERGUSON!" As with Mike, John goes into a drum solo, varying his speed and showing off his technical skills as a percussionist.

"HA HA! And on lead guitar: WILLIAM BYRNE!" Taking the cue, the biker dives into another solo, his personal style a hybrid between thrash metal and neoclassical metal: fast and aggressive but managing to hold a melodic quality even through the heavy distortion.

"ALL RIGHT! LET'S GO OUT WITH A BANG! TAKE IT AWAY!" Erik shouts. Immediately John sets the rhythm and Will dives into a tapping solo that leads the way into the final song of their set: Alice Cooper's "The World Needs Guts". Finished with their set, the band heads back stage to cool off and relax.

"I'm heading outside for some air, guys," Will says to his bandmates, ducking into the parking lot to get away from the overly clingy groupies that are already assembling. Before he gets too far, he spots a group of four people heading his way: a petite young woman of Chinese decent, a small, but powerfully built man who has an almost feral look to him, a tall, thin redheaded woman, and a tall brown-haired man wearing glasses with ruby lenses. _They look familiar,_ he thinks. "Can I help you?"

"William Byrne?" Glasses asks, his voice sounding more like a confirmation than a question.

"Yeah, that's me. Who are you?"

"My name is Scott Summers. This is Jean Grey," he says, nodding to the redhead. "Logan," he continues, indicating the feral-looking man. "And Jubilee," he finishes, pointing out the Chinese girl.

"Nice to meet you," Will answers, more out of politeness than anything else. "What can I do for you?"

"We're representatives of the Xavier School for the Gifted," Jean Grey explains. "We help people like yourself develop their… unique talents."

'_Unique talents', huh?_ Will thinks. _Why doesn't she just come out and say it? I know what I am._

"So you understand why we're here," she continues.

"Anyone ever tell you it's not polite to read people's minds?" Will answers in annoyance, having met with psychics before. "And as to your offer: no. Being a mutant is a pain as it is. Aligning myself with Xavier will just draw unneeded attention to myself."

"Like that little motorcycle stunt, bub?" Logan asks sarcastically.

"It's not like anyone saw my face," Will counters. "Besides, all I can do is sense attacks before they happen. Not much use compared to just about every other mutant out there."

"But if you join us, you could become stronger," Scott replies, clearly not expecting Will to refuse their offer.

"And be targeted by Magneto, Senator Kelly, and all other mutant-haters. Look, I appreciate the offer, but my answer is not only 'no', but 'hell no'."

"Fine, fine. Have it your way," Scott says in exasperation. "The offer's still on the table if you change your mind."

"Don't hold your breath," Will answers, turning to head back inside.

"Wait!" Jubilee pipes up.

"Yeah?" Will asks, stopping for a moment.

"Can I have your autograph? I liked how you played up there," she says, holding out a small spiral notebook and pen.

_Why not?_ "Sure," he says, walking over to her and signing her notebook. "Gotta say, you're the first one to ask me for an autograph who wasn't trying to get me to sell my soul or join their foolproof 'get rich now' scheme," he continues, joking around a bit.

"Thanks," she says, chuckling a bit at his comment.

"No problem. Good night," he says, heading back inside, changing back into his street clothes, and joining his bandmates for the after party; getting annihilated drunk and raising seven kinds of hell before passing out.


End file.
